A Marvel-like object falls into the endless white void. When it strikes, it vanishes within the space—only for something new to sprout 🌱 from the impact. The camera zooms in on the fragile sprout, revealing shards of glass growing from it. Each shard carries scenes from AOT's past, flashing one after another as the sprout pushes forward through time. Suddenly, the fragments converge, and we arrive at a boy standing alone on a street.
The night was drowning in rain. Each drop fell like nails against the ruined earth, soaking the mud until it swallowed footsteps whole. A crooked tree stood alone in the darkness — its bark scarred, roots half-exposed, clinging desperately to the soil as if refusing to let go.
Beneath it, a boy leaned his back against the trunk. His clothes were torn, soaked through, heavy with blood and water. His chest rose and fell unevenly, every breath dragging pain along with it. Yet his eyes… his eyes refused to close.
The storm howled, but he stayed standing.
Mud clung to his boots. Blood leaked down his arm. A wound that should've left him broken only seemed to make him sharper, more alive. He looked forward, not at the world, not at the rain, not even at the endless dark above — but at something no one else could see.
Something was pulling him.
He didn't know why. He didn't know what. And he didn't care.
The boy had grown up hearing whispers: that he was different, cursed, marked by something unseen. His mother tried to soothe him, his father only hardened him. But deep inside, he had always felt it — the ache, the weight pressing down on him, the silent call that never left.
Now, under the broken tree, he felt it stronger than ever.
He placed his hand on the bark. The tree felt cold, yet alive, as if pulsing faintly under his fingertips. Lightning cracked across the sky, and for a split second, the branches above looked like black veins stretching toward the heavens.
The boy didn't flinch.
The pain in his body was real, the cuts across his skin burned, but there was something else — a deeper sting, carved into his very soul. He didn't understand it. He didn't need to. All he knew was that he wasn't ordinary.
And that was enough.
The rain thickened, beating against his shoulders. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the trunk. For a heartbeat, he almost looked like a corpse propped upright, waiting to be buried.
But then he opened his eyes again.
And in them burned a quiet fire — not destiny, not fate, not even understanding. Just a stubborn, unyielding refusal to fall.
The world could try to drown him. His body could bleed, his bones could break, his future could stay wrapped in shadow. None of it mattered.
He would keep walking.
Not because he knew where the path led.
Not because he believed in some greater purpose.
But simply because he could not stop.
And somewhere deep in the night, as if answering him, the wind shifted. The rain bent sideways. For an instant, it almost felt like the tree itself bowed over him — like it recognized him, like it had been waiting.
The boy didn't notice.
He just tightened his grip on the bark, pushed himself off the trunk, and limped forward into the storm.
He was special.
He didn't know why.
And he didn't care.
And we see a boy opening his eyes
Ahh I had this kinda dream before as he closed a book he was reading
The city never truly slept. Cars hummed along wet streets, neon signs bled their colors into puddles, and the night air carried that faint metallic chill of rain not yet fallen. Among the crowd, faces passed and vanished like waves—ordinary, fleeting, forgettable. Yet sometimes, a face lingered.
He noticed her first. The way she tucked her hair back, the same gesture that once belonged to someone standing atop the walls of Shiganshina. It was absurd—impossible even—yet the resemblance was too sharp to dismiss.
And she noticed him, too. Their eyes caught for only a second, but the weight behind it was undeniable. Not recognition of the flesh, but of something deeper. Something old. Something that had burned once in another world.
The world around them did not pause. A bus hissed as it pulled away from the curb. A group of laughing college students crossed the street. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. Yet for them, the noise was muted. Their thoughts were elsewhere—caught between the present and an echo of a life neither of them could quite remember.
Maybe it was chance. Maybe it was fate, pulling threads across worlds. Or maybe, as the author of their tragedy had long since implied, no soul ever truly disappears. It merely waits for another time, another place.
He blinked first, shaking himself back into reality. She had already turned away, disappearing into the crowd. And yet the sensation remained: as if two characters, once written into the same doomed story, had stumbled into a new chapter—reborn into a world without Titans, but with the same unanswered question hanging between them.
Was this truly the end of the old tale, or the quiet beginning of another?